Your Voice When You Say My Name
by JacquiT
Summary: Sam's thoughts on the way her husband addresses her.


Hello!

This is just a fluffy one-shot I wrote partially at noon and partially while my kids were doing homework. Who "he" is in this story is purposely nonspecific, so you can sail your own ship on this one ;) Enjoy!

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><p>From the very beginning of their romantic relationship, Sam had adored the way he said her name.<p>

There was always love in his tone, even when there was also consternation. There was usually affection, sometimes humor and once – just once – there was real anger, and no matter what, she cherished every utterance. But some occasions had their own depths and breadths and textures. He poured meaning into the timbre of his voice the way children poured sugar into their tea.

It was uttered as a prayer on their wedding night, when he touched her so reverently that she knew she was cherished without his having to say another word. He squeezed her hand tightly at the moment she'd been a bit anxious for. "_Sam,_" was all he said, a whisper in the dark with his forehead pressed to hers. The single utterance and their combined heavy breathing were the only sounds in the room. It had hurt, as she'd known it would, but his low, soothing voice was a balm for her nerves and her tense body. She relaxed and smiled up at him, and he smiled back with another worshipful "Sam."

Sometimes, when he said it, he touched her. It didn't matter where or when, the combined forces of his voice and fingertips always sent a thrill up her spine, even when she thought she should be long past the novelty of being touched so intimately. "Sam, darling," he'd say, coming up behind her as she stood in the kitchen, and he'd wrap his hand along the curve of her waist and press his lips to the crook of her neck. Other times, a still-drowsy "Sam" would be uttered as he left in the morning, his fingertips trailing electricity along her cheek, memories of the night before dancing through both of their heads.

Once, he cursed her with it. He'd been bathing and she'd come in to collect the laundry hamper; she inadvertently included his towel. "Dammit, Sam!" she heard, all the way from the sitting room. She rushed back up, wondering what she could possibly have done to illicit such an outburst. He was sopping wet and stark naked, and went on for a moment about how he'd called her name half a dozen times, and what on earth was going through her head? She quirked an eyebrow at him and turned sideways, sliding her hand illustratively underneath her protruding belly, where his child grew. When he said her name again it was with a soft apology and a wet kiss to her temple. She smiled appreciatively at her husband's body for a moment before she went to find him a towel.

It was an apology, one bright summer Saturday, when the war was mercifully over. She'd been out walking when her father called, and when she returned he hardly knew how to tell her, so he began with a sorrowful expression and a soulful utterance of her precious name, "Sam. . . ." before he had to explain that her mother had passed away. He held her close as she sobbed, and he dried the tears from her cheeks as well as his own.

In the deep winter, when they'd been married for about three years, he'd fallen dangerously ill. He had to be confined to bed, lest he find himself with pneumonia and a hospital stay. She cared for him night and day, made him sip broth and tea when all he wanted was to lay still, mopped his arms and forehead with cold compresses, changed the bedsheets when he'd sweat through them. When his fever finally broke, and the cough left him alone long enough to get some periods of restorative sleep, "Darling Sam," was all he could say, ruffling her hair as they laid next to each other. It was weak and hoarse, but it was all she needed to hear.

But perhaps her favorite utterance of her name was the time he'd said it in gratitude and awe, on the day their daughter was born. The midwife had been with her through the night; it was four o'clock in the afternoon when he was finally called upstairs because Sam had insisted upon telling him herself. The baby rested in the crook of her arm; she beamed at him when he entered their bedroom. He climbed up on the bed next to them cautiously and kissed Sam's temple. Then he took a long moment to drink in the tiny red newborn face, her tiny little body wrapped up tight. He bent over her to lay a kiss upon her forehead, and then whispered, "She's . . . _Sam _. . . She's so beautiful."

It was perfect, that one; every tender emotion wrapped up in it, all his fierce love and devotion vocalized in a single syllable. As long as she could always hear that – her own name falling from his lips – Sam knew all would be right with the world.

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><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Jacqui


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